Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (5 page)

She blinked, outraged. “How dare you! You have no right—”

“I haven’t time to waste discussing your messy personal life, Miss Dashwood. I’ve better things to do, like trying to keep your grandfather’s stores solvent. Because the truth is,” he added coldly, “some of us actually
do
have to work for a living.”

Natalie blinked, too astonished to speak. The diners nearest to them had gone quiet; even the clink of silverware had ceased. Mortification washed over her as she realised they’d heard every outrageous word Rhys said to her.

“You can run grandfather’s company however you like, Mr. Gordon,” Natalie said, her voice unsteady as she pushed her chair back. “But you won’t run me. I’m not one of your projects, and I don’t need advice on how to conduct
my
messy life – particularly not from a rude, arrogant prat like you. So you can just – fuck right off!” She let out a single, hiccupping sob and fled.

Chapter 6

As she emerged on the street, fury catapulted her forward. She scrabbled in her handbag for her sunglasses and thrust them on. Her head was pounding and her thoughts were in turmoil.

She pondered various ways to kill Rhys Gordon. Which would be more satisfying – a slow, torturous death, or something quick and violent? Tough call, that…

“Natalie!” someone shouted behind her. “Is it true you’re having an affair with Rhys Gordon?”

Suddenly she was surrounded by paparazzi, jostling one another as they thrust microphones and cameras in her face. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“Will Rhys turn the company round, or is Dashwood and James past redemption?”

“Tell us, Natalie – is Gordon as hard-driving in bed as he is in the boardroom?”

“No comment,” she managed, flustered. She began to tremble. Thank God she had sunglasses on; if they saw her tears, they’d probably say she’d had a lovers’ spat with Rhys!

“What does Dominic Heath think of your new boyfriend?”

“Rhys Gordon is
not
my new boyfriend!” Natalie sputtered. “He’s not my boyfriend at all!”

Suddenly Rhys appeared, thrusting his way through the crowd of reporters, and took possession of her arm.

“Is it true, Rhys?” a female reporter for the
Mirror
called out. “Are you and Natalie an item, or not?”

“What does Miss Dashwood say?” he countered, unperturbed.

“She says you’re not.”

He glanced at Natalie, his expression unreadable. “Then we’re not.” He turned back to the reporters. “Now bugger off, the lot of you.”

Shaken, she let Rhys draw her away. “Thanks,” she murmured, and cast a hunted look over her shoulder as the media hounds dispersed to return to their cars and news vans to sniff out a story elsewhere. “They came out of nowhere. Even after two years with Dom, I still hate it.”

Reporters had often waited outside Dom’s townhouse in Primrose Hill, hoping for a quote or a photograph. It was a nuisance; but it went with the territory when you dated a pop star.

No, far worse was the débâcle with her father when she was a child. Journalists had loitered at the gates to her family’s Warwickshire home for days, bristling with microphones and cameras, and shouted rapid-fire questions at the car as mum drove past, questions ten-year-old Natalie hadn’t understood.

But at least mum had shielded her and her sister Caro from the worst of it…

Natalie realised that Mr. Gordon had spoken. She looked up at him with a guilty start. “I’m sorry, what?”

He raised a brow. “You were a million miles away. Are you all right?”

She nodded. “A bit shaken, that’s all. I’m fine.”

“You never really get used to it,” he observed, and walked beside her as they headed back to Sloane Street. “The media, that is. You learn to handle them,” Rhys said, “and you learn to be firm. That’s the only thing they understand.”

She gave him a sidewise glance. “Spoken like someone who’s been there.”

“I have, more than once.” A shadow passed over his face, gone as quickly as it came. “I’m sorry if I was a bit hard on you in the restaurant.”

“It’s all right.” She added, “It won’t be easy to turn Dashwood and James around, you know.”

“Believe me, I know.” His words were grim. “The store’s finances are a bloody mess, and I’ve a lot of work ahead to get things sorted. But I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you. I apologise.”

“Sorry I told you to fuck off.”

Rhys smiled briefly. “Forget it. If you’ve time when we get back, Miss Dashwood, I’ll show you a couple of spreadsheets to demonstrate how bad things really are.”

Natalie groaned. “I despise spreadsheets, truly. But I suppose I could fit it in. I haven’t any ships to christen at the moment.”

As they rounded the corner onto Sloane Street, Natalie was conscious of his hand at her back. She realised that her headache was gone.

“Shit.” Rhys slowed his pace. Several reporters waited outside the store. “Normally I’d deal with them, but I haven’t time today. Come on, we’ll slip in the back entrance.”

But they’d been spotted. With a couple of shouts, the journos abandoned the front steps and pelted after them.

Natalie, her hand gripped tightly in Rhys’s, ran with him around the corner and gasped, “This is crazy!”

As they ducked into the store’s service lift, Rhys glanced back at her. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset?”

“Well, we’re being chased by the paparazzi…your famous ex-boyfriend is engaged to his ex-wife…and you and I are the featured story in every red-top in London.”

Nat shrugged. “Oh, well – being papped goes with the territory when you date a celebrity. And Keeley and Dominic? They deserve each other. He never got over her, you know.” She smirked. “Or losing access to the masses of money she makes.”

As they stepped off the service lift to the fourth floor, Natalie checked her mobile. There were four messages from her mum, one from her sister Caro, and one from…Ian Clarkson? How did
he
get her number? “I’ve got to check my messages,” she told Rhys with a frown. “You go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t be long,” he cautioned. “My meeting’s in twenty minutes.”

She nodded, already listening to her messages.

Bleep. “It’s mum. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight? I’ve hardly seen you lately.”

Bleep. “I don’t know what’s going on,” her mother began ominously, “but reporters are outside, armed with cameras and microphones. I can’t leave the house! Please call me.”

Bleep. “Sarah Hadley called to say you and Rhys Gordon are all over the tabloids! You’re not sleeping with that man…? I don’t care what you’re doing, Natalie, call me at once!”

Bleep. “I’m turning the hose on those reporters. This is insufferable! The answer machine is clogged with messages from every tabloid in London.” Natalie heard the hissing sound of spraying water, and a chorus of muffled shouts, then her mum cried triumphantly, “Take that, you lot!”

Natalie groaned. Poor mum. There was no time to call and explain now; she’d call back after the meeting with Rhys. Bleep. “I’m on my way to fetch Nigella,” Caro chirped. “Thanks, Natty! Love you.”

Finally, she scrolled to the last message. Ian Clarkson.

Bleep. “Natalie, Ian here.” He paused. “Call me. I need to speak with you. It’s important.”

Ian was married, his wife Alexa expecting their first child, yet each time he saw Natalie, he asked her, in that suggestive, smarmy way of his, to lunch or drinks. She always turned him down. She had no doubt that his message was more of the same. Without hesitation, she deleted it.

Ian was trouble she didn’t need. Or want.

She hurried back to Rhys’s office. Just outside his door, she paused. He was talking to someone on the phone.

“—the tabloids? No, there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James.”

Natalie blinked. Every tabloid in Britain was running the story of her ‘affair’ with Rhys; reporters had badgered her, and brought up bad memories, and besieged her mum’s house; and Rhys Gordon thought it made for ‘great publicity?’ Her fingers tightened on her mobile.

“The stores need every ounce of attention they can get,” Rhys went on. “What better way to grab the headlines than an ‘affair’ with Sir Richard’s granddaughter, Natalie?”

Fury swept over her. How dare Rhys use her like this, like some kind of – of media catnip? Why, the opportunistic, manipulative little
prat
—

“Attractive?” Rhys said into the phone. “Yes, very. But she’s not my type,” he added dismissively. “As to what she’s like…well, you’d have to ask the boyfriend, Dominic.” He let out a throaty chuckle. “Probably a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…”

Her cheeks flaming with mortification, Natalie stood rooted to the spot.

When she’d flung the wine at Dominic, Rhys Gordon had stepped in to save the day – not to avoid publicity, but to guarantee it.

It all made perfect sense. She remembered how he’d offered to take her home, how he’d leaned his head close to hers when they spoke, and put his hand on her back when he walked her outside. He’d demonstrated such concern for her…

.…all for the benefit of the bloody photographers.

Natalie turned to go. She left, glad Gemma wasn’t at her desk, and blinked back tears of anger and humiliation.

“Natalie?” Gemma called out behind her. “Were you looking for me?”

She paused to collect herself before she turned around. “Yes. Would you tell Mr. Gordon that I can’t stay? I had a call…my mother…something’s come up.”

“Is everything all right?” Gemma asked as she came closer, her face etched with concern. “You look upset.”

“I’m fine. Thanks.” And before her tears could give proof to the lie, she fled.

Chapter 7

When Natalie came downstairs, she saw reporters loitering outside the front doors. They were as persistent – and irritating – as midges. Thrusting her sunglasses on, she detoured once again to the back service entrance and peered cautiously out. No one was in sight.

Halfway down the alley to her car, Natalie heard a shout behind her.

“Natalie! Where’s Rhys? Is it true you’re seeing each other?”

“How do you feel about Dominic and Keeley’s engagement? Give us a quote, love!”

She flung herself inside the car and slammed the door, then gunned the engine. Her heart pounded as she threw the Peugeot in gear and screeched out onto Sloane Street, narrowly missing a taxicab in the process. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Thankfully, no one followed her.

Natalie found a parking spot on a side street and let out a ragged breath. Bloody media! What she needed was someone to talk to. Someone calm and sensible…

She grabbed her mobile and scrolled to Sir Richard’s private number. “I need to see you, grandfather,” she said without preamble when he answered. “Right now.” Her voice wobbled. “Thanks. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Cherie James peeled the last potato, ready to add it to the others arranged around the roast, when the phone rang. “Yes?”

“Hullo, darling, it’s me.”

“Alastair,” Cherie said as she eyed the roast, “don’t tell me you’re working late again. You promised to be home in time for dinner tonight—”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But Gordon wants ideas to improve our bottom line, and he wants them by tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll get home. Don’t wait up.”

“Don’t worry,” Cherie said tightly as she put the roast in the Aga and slammed the oven door, “I won’t.” The meat would taste like a boot by the time Alastair finally sat down to eat.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. “We’ll go to that new French restaurant you’ve wanted to try. I’ll make reservations for Saturday night when I hang up.”

Despite her anger, she relented. “All right,” she said finally. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that you’re always staying late. I’m bloody sick of my own company.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But at least Hannah’s there.”

“Another year and she’ll be off to university.” Then what would she do? Cherie wondered, and fought back the sudden rise of despair. “I miss you,” she added softly. “I miss us.”

“As do I, darling.” He paused. “Look, if I push it, I might finish up by ten o’clock. Wait for me?”

“Of course. I’ll see you then.”

She rang off and wondered, not for the first time, if Alastair was having an affair. But as quickly as the idea occurred, she discarded it. He wasn’t that sort of man. Besides, if anyone was entitled to have an affair, Cherie reflected irritably, she was. Putting up with Alastair’s late hours, worrying about their daughters, what with Holly living on her own in London, and Hannah, off to uni next year—

Oh, stop
, she scolded herself.
You’ve a good husband and two lovely daughters who’ve never given you a moment’s trouble
.
You’ve nothing to worry about.

She took out the flour and sugar and decided to make a treacle tart for dessert.

Affairs were for other people, after all. Not for people like Alastair and her.

Miraculously, there were no reporters outside Sir Richard’s townhouse when Natalie arrived. Nevertheless, she parked around the corner and made her way cautiously to the front door.

She’d barely raised her hand to knock when the door swung open. “Come in, miss, your grandfather’s expecting you.”

“Thank you, Lyons.” She smiled at Sir Richard’s butler. “Is he in the drawing room?”

“He’s in his study, miss. Would you like a drink?”

She’d like more than a drink, she’d like an entire bottle, thank you, and no need for a glass. But, “No thanks,” she said, and walked quickly to the end of the hall. Sir Richard stood before the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Grandfather,” she said in a rush as she tossed her handbag aside, “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll never believe what that awful Rhys Gordon’s done now!”

He turned away from the window and fixed a rheumy eye on her. From his desk, he picked up a copy of the
Daily Mail
, held it up, and asked, “Has it anything to do with this?”